The Lighthouse

the lighthouse

15 July 2009

The Story of a lass and a Glenn

This was inspired by and for a dear friend who had one of those random encounters that keep the heart of a single girl in working order. It's intentionally over the top, not at all factual, and hopefully somewhat humorous. Enjoy...

He walked with the confidence of a man in uniform, one who knew he could keep 900,000 pounds of machinery, metal and human flesh aloft over mountain ranges and vast sweeps of ocean expanse; through storm and cloud and shattering sunlight. He was a pilot; a ginger-haired pilot with the clear, icy blue eyes of an Alaskan Husky. Even in the warm and contented fog of a week well-lived in New York City, Colleen recognised the masculine command emanating from the very presence of this man, and nearly swooned on the spot. At least, never having properly swooned before, she thought the limp spaghetti state of her knees was a precursor to an out-and-out swoon, and she clutched at the back of one of the moulded plastic seats riveted to the floor of the departures lounge in long rows, like prisoners in a chain gang. He heard her luggage tumble to the floor, turned to see if assistance was required (he could fly a plane - a lady in distress was nothing to this man) and that’s when it happened: their eyes met across the crowded room. His piercing blue gaze drew her own like a magnet draws iron shavings; it felt as if her very soul was yearning toward him.

Glenn…his name was Glenn. (He wore a helpful name badge on the breast pocket of his uniform) The name had a Scottish ring to it. Maybe he was Scottish, and had a lovely, lilting brogue in his speech, was able to sing like an angel, and could tickle trout out of creeks when hill walking through the heather. The beautiful man started to walk toward her, and it seemed there was a glow about him, like Maddy Hayes on Moonlighting (it was the Vaselined lens they used for her on the show). When he stood next to her, he reached out and touched her, holding her hand and helping her to steady herself. His nearness though, intensified the wobble in her knees, and she had to rely on his support in order to remain standing. He was warm and strong, and he smelled so good she couldn’t help leaning in to absorb him a little more. He smiled at her - a lift at one corner of his mouth and a flash of dimple in his cheek -- then without a word he patted her hand, and walked with confident, man-in-uniform strides to his gate, and disappeared from her sight.

What had she done? How could she have allowed this man to just walk out of her life like that? There had been a connection between them, she knew it; and in the brief contact of their hands, she had felt a lifetime of belonging. She would have to trust the Fates on this one, for she knew the door closing behind him as he went to his plane was not the door of possibility closing on their future happiness.

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